Blood, Sweat, & Tears
by Litt
Summary: The band room, it is often said, is like a black hole; drawing you in, keeping you for a time, yet you never leave the same person. You don’t want to leave.


Blood, Sweat, and Tears  
  
By: "Foreigner"  
  
Litt  
  
An: I started scribbling this down in our Band Library, for lack of anything else to do. 'Oony, one of the schools Bassoons, was broken, the class wasn't doing anything, the rest of the band junkies in the room were doing homework (exhibiting no form of amusement I could identify) and I, miraculously, had no homework to do. I really don't know what I was thinking, but the name was intended to actually fit in the beginning, before I started rewriting. Now I haven't a clue what I wanted to do, so bear with me; I'm merely posting this as a way to amuse myself with the idea that I'm loved, and I can get reviews if I tried.  
  
I'm trying.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The band room, it is often said, is like a black hole; drawing you in, keeping you for a time, yet you never leave the same person. You don't want to leave. And if you do, by some chance, than it is safe to say you overlooked the dust sprinkled floor, sweat and spit encrusted lockers, dented stands, butt-worn chairs and white walls decorated with pictures and trophies as just another room chalk full of musically inclined people. Therefore, you have excluded yourself of the whole experience that can, and has, claimed many lives. I spent half of my freshman year skipping free period to haunt the band hall, students and, eventually, assimilated seamlessly into 3rd period as just another flute.  
  
Eventually, after weeks of living off of nothing but coaches Twix's she sells in the locker room, sneaking in and out the chipped double doors with Ashleigh, passing section leaders and DrumMajors, we got caught. It isn't necessarily a bad thing that your director notices you, and in this case, it wasn't. It became commonplace to see the two of us begging Mr. R for an errand or a reason to stay, or in the back of the room, sitting on the numerous stacked chairs doing homework, practicing or just waiting for the bell to ring. It was a shame class started after we left.  
  
My "sister" and "brother", both adopted from a summer of band camp by my mom, often caught me during one of my skippings and were surprisingly shocked to find I didn't, in fact, have 3rd. This faded and they merely smile, nod or say "Hi", eventually making it the 15 odd steps across the threshold, across the hall into the Percussion room. "Suave House".  
  
Ah, the House, as I'd taken to calling it. That old storage room behind the stage that now is abode to countless drums and broken tuba cases. Walking in the first time was like walking into a labyrinth where, as I found out, woodwinds weren't tolerated. I became somewhat of an exception after a few months of persistent visits. Later, all I had to do was poke my head in and one of the percussionists would tell me my brother wasn't there, say hi, or relay a message for me.  
  
It was not so in the Brass room; where the smell of spit is ever present. Though, I always reminded myself whenever I went in there that it was because of the small space and lack of ventilation. The wooden lockers were bigger than that of 'our' room, the Woodroom,- which smells more like sweat and dirt, yet pleasantly so, as it is so frequently frequented by people,- and what goes on in there I am only vaguely aware of.  
  
Yet, as confirmed by experience, the image of Spongebob boxers always comes to mind. (Anonymous Trombone.)  
  
Woodwinds, of course, are also the guardians of Hats and Concession Snacks, which are kept in the smaller room, connected to it by a door partially ignored in the back.  
  
Then the Library comes into mind, the small, dark, randomly packed room where it is okay to seek requested privacy. You'll have an audience of course; someone is almost always in there: be it the DrumMajors, who have come up with a knocking code, a manager, or an Oboist. Thick notebooks of music, separated into sections, are crammed on the shelves and personal items, recently banned in the room, are found willy nilly within its nooks and crannies.  
  
Anywho, though I usually find any kind of concert particularly uninteresting, we were practicing for one nonetheless. One of the reasons I find 3rd period so strange is that, even though class doesn't start until nearly 15 minutes after the last bell, when it starts, it starts. Our class, currently titleless "2nd Period", always seems to have a problem. For that reason and that reason alone, we had to start from scratch.  
  
"Attention," Mr. M said softly from the podium, bald head shining in the light, glasses strangely green (I always wonder about this) too, true to his word when he said he wouldn't raise his voice. The fact that it was stone still and eerily silent did help though, or maybe it was my inevitable spot in the front? Either way, even the Baritones couldn't complain about not hearing him when he went on. "Is the first thing you will be judged on, even when you're not in competition. This, 2nd Period," - he eased that mocking name in as many times as possible, the reminder that we freshman hadn't earned a name yet as all the other class; except for 6th.- "is what I want to see and hear every time the person on the podium stops directing."  
  
And with that, he swept his arms up and we brought our instruments up along with starting the days warm up. 


End file.
